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Page 1 of 3 A few weeks ago, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting Michael Puttre, a talented author who was in the process of launching his first book 'Outre Mer', which will be reviewed shortly. Michael has graciously allowed us to publish this vignette.
Our Brother’s Keeper
By Michael Puttré
Author’s note: More of a vignette than a proper short story, I originally wrote this as a prologue to my science-fiction novel, Outre Mer (http://www.lulu.com/content/441712). But readers of early drafts of my manuscript told me it front-loaded the story with too much information. I like it though, so I present it as a bit of standalone “backstory.” I invite you to visit my website at www.mputtre.com.
Five people had arranged themselves facing each other on what might have been the deck of a ski lodge were it not situated on an airless planet over 40 light years from Earth. The deck overlooked lazy-S walking trails that meandered down through abbreviated evergreen valleys. Above were stunted promontories flecked with snow and edelweiss. There was no actual skiing but the Alpine Dome was an artful construct nevertheless and its kitchen and cellar helped to weave a homey illusion for people. Having reached the stars mankind spared no expense to bring the comforts of home along.
All of the Alpine Dome’s amenities were closed to public visitors for the duration of the ad hoc conference, a periodic inconvenience to those who lived and worked in the human spaces. People in Pan’s Moon Peace City were accustomed to the requirements of the peace industry. There were other domes and diversions aplenty.
Even considering the absence of the visiting public, the air was preternaturally silent. Not simply quiet, there was a total absence of ambient noise: no wind, no rustling trees, no whispering snow, nor even any inside sounds of the fake outdoors: drips and whirrs and the like. There was a fog-like deadness of to the air -- clear as it was, caressing and sharp -- that seemed to drink sound. This was due to the active noise-cancellation system, installed for the benefit of the Joint Working Group for their post-negotiation sessions. A few years back, Security discovered that the Greys were using a laser to read voice vibrations on the dome’s outer surface.
There was electricity in the air despite the deadness. The three men and two women sat upright on the edges of their chaise lounges with databoards and power papers spread at their sides. Normally, they lounged, comparing notes with detached professionalism and good humor over drinks of varying stiffness and gourmet cheeses from Erie. This occasion called for maximum concentration. The liaisons were excited and they were scared.
“In thirty years of formal negotiations this is the first time they’ve come on out and demanded anything,” Rachel White said. Rachel was the liaison for the Sciences Track, a nebulous undertaking where negotiators endeavored to establish common standards and measures for science and technology. She pushed dark, bottlebrush hair back over her ears with both hands. “They want reports of real processes with components and quality assurance documentation.”
“Did you tell them that we weren’t in the terraforming business?” said Ben Aleghieri, liaison for the Military Track. He gestured with the stem of a cherrywood pipe that remained unlit. He was razor thin with close-cropped black hair and goatee streaked with silver. He had a natural blue right eye and an augmented left goldeneye that he used for graphical overlays and speed-reading. Ben was a civilian expert and historian retired from Outer Service Intelligence with enough of a background to be relevant but without current operational knowledge he might inadvertently betray to the Greys. He had a coffee mug with the battered crest of an Outer Service attack boat squadron that let him fly back seat on a mission once.
“Of course we did,” Rachel said, withdrawing a cigarette from a silver case. Ben produced a stainless steel spot that had been given to him by a manufacturer of railgun shells. Rachel leaned in so Ben could give her a light. “But they persisted, saying that humans practiced terraforming as we spoke. Unfortunately, this is true.”
“That is not fair,” Roland Rouge said simply. His tone was matter-of-fact and precise, despite the quantity of snuff ensconced in his right cheek. “We have no control over the Phalangists. I thought we had gotten past that issue.”
Roland was liaison for the Legal Track. He was the oldest of the group, and nominally the senior member. He had actually held elective office in the past as a popular, if ineffectual, governor of a state on Pavise. This world carried some baggage as being the first planet terraformed -- the ghastly petrie-dish fumblings in the Solar System excepted -- and the Pavisiers were forever apologizing for it, even though it had been their grandparents who did the deed, which at the time had seemed necessary for the war effort, and even the species. Roland spat tobacco juice into a plastic cup.
“We’re all the same to the Greys,” Ben said, wrinkling his nose with distaste that didn’t show in his voice. “Homo sapiens is all of us apes.”
“The Jurisdiction Understanding clearly states that we speak only for iSUN Charter members,” Roland said, ignoring or oblivious to Ben’s reaction. “We spent five years hammering it out.”
“You’ll remember that we embarked on that Understanding with a capital ‘U’ for our own protection,” Ben said. “We wanted to make sure that the Greys we were talking to spoke for all the Greys. Now, it seems they want the same from us.”
“Regardless,” Rachel said. “They demand information about current terraforming practices.”
“What did you tell them?” Roland asked.
“We said we didn’t do that anymore,” Rachel said.
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